Kurtus

     Kurtus fell into a coughing spasm. Several of the runes which monitored his weakened condition flickered from deep amber into the red area. There was a quiet hiss as the automated medical system administered a viscous green liquid. Within moments, Kurtus' coughing had ceased. Taking a moment to clear the tears from his eyes, he continued his work.
     The Illumination would be the culmination of four decades of painstaking labour. In all of that time, Kurtus had not seen another living soul. His world consisted only of his work, his ragged futon and the condensed protein material which was delivered intravenously exactly once every eight hours. Sleep became irrelevant long ago, for it only offered momentary release. Each time Kurtus closed his eyes, it was with the certainty that they would open again. Until the Illumination was finished.
     Kurtus had long since suspected the Illumination would never be finished.
     Kurtus had long since suspected he was mad.
     The lights that Kurtus did not - could not - turn off began to flicker. Kurtus looked at the lights with fascination, admiring the strange shadows that were created. After a few moments, the bronze collar around his neck administered a mild shock - the price of complacency. Kurtus knew from experience that the shocks would increase in strength until he lost consciousness. It was the only way to get to sleep.
     Kurtus regarded his Illumination. For forty years Kurtus had toiled on his labour. It was to represent The Emperor, the Saviour of Mankind. Kurtus had never seen his subject, never known what form the Illumination would take. He supposed it didn't matter, for each Illumination reflected the artist as much as the subject. When Kurtus had first begun the Illumination, he had not known where to begin. It was merely a flat display, utterly blank and formless. Kurtus was connected to it by probes on his head. He only needed to think of an image and it would appear upon the display. Keeping the image clear was impossible, and each time it would dissolve into tiny spectral fragments. Slowly, Kurtus began to acquire the disciplines needed to maintain an image. After only ten years, Kurtus could hold a tiny image, like an island in an enormous ocean. Like an eye of sanity in a chaotic storm.
     Kurtus closed his eyes and visualised the Illumination. He knew every detail, every shadow, every colour. Kurtus fixed the smallest detail in his mind, the first shade that the Illumination had begun with so long ago. Then his mind flew upward and filled in the details so that more could be seen. Higher and higher Kurtus flew until finally the entire Illumination could be seen. It filled Kurtus' mind. It filled the universe. Kurtus' mind was filled by the universe.
     Three huge bolts were thrown and an ancient door slowly, horribly opened. The recycled air of Kurtus' chamber was mixed with the fresh air of the hallway as a mishapen creature shuffled into the room. It regarded Kurtus' corpse, sunken eyes rolled back into wasted sockets, spittle still fresh upon the Illuminatus' lips. It disconnected the probes from the corpse's forehead and carefully collected the Illumination. The soulless Servitor stared dumbly at the horrible, magnificent image. It stayed that way for several minutes, until a mild shock was administered from its bronze neck brace.
     Wordlessly, the Servitor returned to the hallway, sealing the ancient door behind it.
End.

Kurtus

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